


The Rage of Achilles

by soulmate328



Series: The Lengendary Half-Brothers [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But dies in this one anyway, Dagor Bragollach, First Age, Fëanor Lives, Half-Sibling Incest, Homeros | Homer (c. 8th Century BCE) References, M/M, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Parody, Parody of Both Iliad and Silmarillion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29565606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulmate328/pseuds/soulmate328
Summary: "Oh, Fëanáro! I could not truly love you, and I could not truly hate you. I could not forgive you, yet I only wish to curse my own wrongdoings. Let me fight for the last time, with the pride as a king and a child of Ilúvatar! Let my foolish valor bring unity to Elves and Men. May my deed shame you, Fëanáro, and may the endless hatred between us end with my death. May you remember in the rest of your life, that it was Finwë's second son that avenged him til death."
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Series: The Lengendary Half-Brothers [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869997
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	The Rage of Achilles

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [阿喀琉斯之怒](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27060874) by [soulmate328](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulmate328/pseuds/soulmate328). 



> Written in the narration style of the Silmarillion (though mine's just parody).

The strife between the two houses softened, as valiant Fingon rescued Maedhros, and Dagor Aglareb, the Glorious Battle, was won by the Noldor. Thus at Eithel Sirion a truce was made between Fëanor and Fingolfin, securing their territories with Fingolfin in the west and Fëanor in the east, laying siege to Angband in the north. Though they set down their former conflicts, pride and lingering resentment made neither willing to bend their knees, so they agreed upon this compromise with reluctance.

Day and night their soldiers guarded their fortresses, their riders patrolled the plains, and Noldorin warriors clad in crimson-gold or silver-blue beckoned each other upon occasional meetings. The kings lay down their stubborn hatred as friendship blossomed among their children; at the end of the years of peace, Elves and Men alike in Beleriand saw them rode side by side, hunting Orcs on the plains of Ard-galen, driving trolls out of the caves in Ered Wethrin, cleaning the nests of spiders in the shadows of Nan Dungortheb. Even in places shrouded by mist and darkness, one could see clearly the eight-pointed star on Fëanor's chest and the shinning helmet of Fingolfin, their faces calm, determined and unafraid.

Peace lasted for centuries, as green grasses thrived on Ard-galen, and the dark clouds of Angband huddled on the distant horizon, banished by the fiery light of the Valar. Until rivers of flame poured forth from the mouth of Thangorodrim, Orcs, Werewolves and Balrogs came upon the white walls of Barad Eithel, and Dagor Bragollach, Battle of Sudden Flame, begun. Dorthonion bore most heavily the brunt of the assault; the highland was scorched, and Angrod and Aegnor its commanders were slain. Separated by the fire and the enemies, Fingolfin could not go to his nephews' aid, while men from the House of Hador fell defending the walls of Barad Eithel. When their connection with the House of Fëanor in the east was lost as well, the Elven King in Hithlum became distraught, coming close to the verge of despair.

But just then Fëanor, far away in Estolad, reached out to his half-brother through a Palantír, assuring him that they still held their grounds. Once more they saw the light of hope, and they made plans to march towards Dorthonion from both sides to reclaim their lost lands. The fight went on for nearly a year, and the bodies of the Noldor were scattered on the charred slopes, and at last at the end of the second year of the battle the two forces joined in the ruins of the fortress of Angrod and Aegnor, and Dorthonion was again Noldorin land. When Fingolfin and Fëanor reunited at the broken gate, they were covered in burns and the dark blood of Orcs, unable to speak for the poisoned air damaged their throats, their eyes bloodshot and swelling. They embraced, swords and shields sliding from their hands, as if the world around them had vanished. Finrod and Galadriel climbed to the top of the ruins, raising the banner of their fallen brothers, and declared the victory of the Noldor.

The Noldorin Kings suffered great losses from Dagor Bragollach, defending their lands with far more difficulty, while the soldiers' morale sank ever lower. But when the heroic deeds of Beren and Lúthien spread across Beleriand, the tide of war seemed to be turning, as Elves and Men found hope in the lovers' feat and were more united than ever before. Seizing the chance, Fëanor and Fingolfin summoned up a union of many forces, planning an attack on Angband once more. Finrod came with the best soldiers of Nargothrond, Thingol dispatched a few troops at Galadriel's pleading, even Turgon in his hidden city sent forth his best fighting men to his father's aid. Men from across the continent answered the summon, though not all of them sought noble goals.

Fëanor had been demanding the return of the Silmaril since the day it went to Doriath. Thingol was reluctant at first, for Lúthien and her lover paid a great price for its retrieval, but at Melian and Lúthien's behest, he agreed to Fëanor's demands. So in the 475th year of the First Age, two years before the great battle, Melian came to the bank of the river Celon with the gleaming jewel in her hands, and returned it to the awaiting sons of Fëanor. Birds surrounded her as she approached, her raiments floating like clouds, and wherever she went trees turned green and flowers blossomed at the Silmaril's sacred light. The sons of Fëanor looked upon their father's creation with longing, overjoyed for the completion of the Oath and the glory promised by the unsullied Light.

But when Maedhros received the Silmaril from Melian, his hands were scorched. And he knew that the Silmaril would not bear the touch of one who sinned. "My brothers," he said in sadness when the jewel slipped from his hands. "I have seen our future. The Oath we swore in our home is far out of reach, for our father's creation has denied us."

The Sons of Fëanor took the Silmaril back to their father in Himring, full of despair, depression and remorse, reflecting on the injustice of fate, regretting the crimes they committed in Alqualondë, and missing their mother far awar in Valinor. Fëanor refused to believe what they said, so he took the Silmaril in his hands. Yet he felt no pain, and he laughed.

"No need to worry, my children! Our Oath is complete, though just a part of it. The Khazâd blame not Mahal for having attempted to destroy them, and creations do not harm their creators."

Yet as he beheld in ecstacy his masterpiece retrieved, a crack emerged on the smooth surface of the Silmaril, and Fëanor let go of it in horror. Indeed as he said, creations do not harm their creators, but the light within the jewel could not bear his touch, and therefore attempted to break the vessel that preserved them. This Fëanor realized, but he spoke no word, only putting the Silmaril back in the box, and locked himself in his forge.

For a whole year Fëanor lived in reclusion, trying to find a way to repair the Silmaril and make it accept him, for he would not admit that his touch was refused by his own creation. He poured himself into his work as he once did when forging the Silmarils, caring not the matters outside his walls. Because of that, the alliance against Angband became loose, and rumors spread in the legions about Fëanor sinking into grief and madness, and many questioned if he could serve as a proper commander in the following wars. Though Maedhros still worked to hold the alliance together, the situation was not going well.

Displeased with Fëanor's neglect of his duty, Fingolfin came to Himring and tried to persuade him to set aside his work. He strode across the halls of Himring, and none dared to stop him, for even the harsh wind and snow of the mountains could not compare to the ice in his eyes. The door to Fëanor's forge was locked, so he slashed it open with his sword and went straight to Fëanor's side.

"This is my fortress, half-brother, and I do not remember giving you the right to do whatever you wish." Fëanor had grown haggard from months of work, but his back remained straight and his chin raised in his half-brother's presence. "Leave here now, and perhaps I shall not consider throwing you to the cells."

"I feared not the point of your sword, and I will not fear your chains," Fingolfin replied. "I do not believe you know nothing of the things taking place outside. Your madness and your obsession towards your creation is leading this already loose alliance to its doom. Can you not focus on this battle first? This may determine the future of the Noldor, yet you only care for your jewel."

"I have sworn to Eru that I shall not rest until the Silmarils are retrieved. Yet when she is in my grasp, I have no right to declare my ownership over my own creation. How many will covet her light and her beauty, and the prosper she promises? How much effort have I put in their creation, how much pride have I for them, and how much price have I paid to get them back? How can I allow them to harm my son, or turn to dust in my own hands?"

"Where do you place your duty to your people?" questioned Fingolfin.

"Our glory is a fleeting light; it's nothing compared to the eternal brightness of the Silmarils," answered Fëanor. Fingolfin was disappointed and enraged, and he left Himring to return to his capital in Hithlum, but Maedhros managed to persuade him to remain in the alliance.

Fëanor continued his timeless work, and most of his sons were sunken in depression, devastated like their father by the denial of the Silmaril. But Maglor knew that this must not last, so he sought out his brother Maedhros to discuss about the strategy.

"The scouts in the north reported that there's a great army gathering in Angband," said Maglor. "We have planned to strike first and hard, but now, that only advantage is slipping away. How can we let father continue his obsession with something that would never happen in this grave hour? Fëanáro has created many miracles, but even he could not undo crimes already committed. Our hands are stained by the blood of our kin, that is unchangeable. We need him to lead, let the soldiers see that their commander is worth following, and create no chance of robbing father's rights for proud Ñolofinwë. His nobility is unquestionable, but we all know that he has never really forgiven father."

Maedhros only shook his head, "But how can we change father's descision? We have never succeeded in persuading him, not in Tirion, not in Alqualondë, nor at Losgar."

Maglor worried for his father and the alliance. He guarded the vital gap in East Beleriand, and he understood Morgoth's might better than anyone else, therefore he knew that the situation was not positive. A terrible plan emerged in his heart. One night, he put herbs into his father's glass of water, lulling Fëanor to sleep; and he stole the Silmaril from the forge and escaped Himring with it. The next dawn, Fëanor raged when he discovered that the Silmaril was gone, and he sent riders after the thief, but Maglor wore a cloak so no one knew the thief's identity. Carrying the box with the Silmaril, Maglor rode west, taking the risk of passing through Nan Dungortheb, dumping his pursuers with the help of the shadows and mists. He showed himself to the soldiers of Hithlum, and Fingon welcomed him into the city, provided him with food and shelter. But he never told anyone that he had the Silmaril, only claiming that he came for a brief visit. He left in a hurry, and came to the empty Vinyamar, where he threw the Silmaril into the deep waters. And so the unsullied Light shall sleep at the bottom of the ocean til the end of the world.

Before Maglor could return, Fëanor's riders had arrived in Hithlum, and asked for Fingolfin's help in seek of the thief that had stolen the Silmaril. Fingolfin noticed the connection between Maglor and the theft, and he questioned him, and Maglor was forced to tell Fingolfin his plan.

"At last, I am indeed my father's son!" Maglor sighed. "I do not know what madness drove me to do this terrible thing, but there is no return. No matter in what manner shall my father punish me, I accept. My only wish is for him to wake from the obsession that makes him gaunt, and remember his duty as a king. I beg you too, uncle, to forgive my father's depression and neglect of his duty. He has his wrongs, but to be refused by his greatest creation as a craftsman, his sorrow could not be easily understood."

Fingolfin held his hands. "Your story kindled my rage, yet your request quenched it. Even just to repay your valor, my nephew, I shall not let this alliance go to ruin. But I will not allow you to offer yourself, Makalaurë, for I've heard from your father's riders that he has decided to have the thief, whoever he is, put to death."

"No matter! I shall face all the consequences. Perhaps he will forgive me for our tie in blood, but even if he does not, I will not have any question for my fate. Perhaps if I die now, I will be more fortunate than my brothers who have to carry on with their Oath."

But Fingolfin, furious at Fëanor, rejected Maglor solemnly. "I know your father. Though he loves his kin, he could not bear them to go against his will. His love for his father did not make him respect father's wish, and his love for his wife did not make him listen to her counsel. His love for you will only make him feel unspeakably betrayed, even though you did this out of love for him. I will not allow such thing to happen! No, my nephew, I will not surrender you to unjust penalty. I shall bear it for you."

"No, uncle! Your position does not allow you to make such rash decision. This will only deepen your conflict with father."

"Yet truth has proven that letting your father abuse his authority will never yield good results," said Fingolfin firmly. "I've had enough. It's time to let Fëanáro know what consequence is."

Fingolfin ordered to have Maglor secretly escorted back to Himring, while he himself walked to the gate and declared to Fëanor's riders with a powerful voice, "Tell my half-brother that I am the one that plotted the theft of his jewel! His selfish ways disgust me, so I stole the stone and threw it into Belegaer, to make sure that he never has worry about it again. Yet, he has no right to accuse me of committing any crime, for I am no subject of his. I shall dispatch forces to the alliance as promised, since I am not so narrow-minded as my brother, but I will not accept any charges from him."

The riders sent his words back to Himring, and Fëanor, in his rage, brought his best troop and marched towards Hithlum. Maglor returned to him, and told him that he was the one that stole the Silmaril, but Fëanor could not believe that his son would betray him, and deemed Maglor to be only defending Fingolfin.

Fëanor led his troops beneath the walls of Barad Eithel, in hopes of taking the city. However, though many of the Sons of Fëanor felt anger towards Fingolfin, most of them did not approve of their father's plan of attacking the city. Moreover, his soldiers had formed friendship with the troops of Hithlum throughout the years of the Siege, so he was forced to abandon the plan. He commanded Fingolfin to yield himself in the name of the High King, but Fingolfin would not admit that he was his subject. Then Fëanor challenged Fingolfin to a duel, proposing that they fight beneath the walls, and whoever loses must surrender his kingship and go into exile. Fingon tried to persuade Fingolfin to refuse the proposal, for even if Fingolfin does not accpet the challenge, Fëanor could do nothing about it. But proud Fingolfin would be not called a coward by his half-brother, so he donned his armor, took his sword Ringil, and accepted Fëanor's challenge outside the city gate, tense and dangerous as a python guarding its lair.

Beneath the white walls of Barad Eithel, cloaks of red and blue flapped in the wind, armors of gold and silver gleamed under the sun, and the clear sounds of clashing swords echoed in Ered Wethrin, attracting Elves and Men and sending shivers up the spines of Orcs and Trolls in their caves. The red plume on Fëanor's helmet danced as he dashed, and Fingolfin's sword reflected a different color of light every time he moved. The two kings of the Noldor had fought side by side, but not once did they cross their blades, for both had been restraining their resentment. Now that the resentment had gone wild, their friendship was gone in the clashing of swords.

Elves within and outside the city watched them fight, like stallions in a race, like lions defending their territories. Fingolfin was the stronger, white flames shimmered as his sword beated and scratched on Fëanor's shield. But Fingolfin's armor was forged by no other than Fëanor himself, giving him the chance to notice a weak spot and pierce it with his sword, the blade running through Fingolfin's shoulder. He stepped on Fingolfin's neck and aimed for the fatal strike, but Maedhros and Fingon stopped him in time. Fingolfin, bitter and furious, knew he had lost, so he packed his things and mounted his horse Rochallor, leaving Barad Eithel behind as promised.

With Fingolfin gone, Fëanor submerged himself in joy, and declared once more to all the Noldor his right as the High King. Yet his joy did not last, for Fingolfin had a reputation among Elves and Men, and his banishment led to great unrest within the alliance. Their opinion was that although Fingolfin had done wrong, it was Fëanor who neglected his duty first. Turgon withdrew his troops as soon as he heard the news, and the Elves of Doriath resented the sight of kin pointing sword against kin, and many planned to leave for their home as well. The morale was low among the rest of the Noldorin army, both Elves and Men of Hithlum and Nargothrond were upset by Fingolfin's departure, and conflicts often erupted among them.

At first, Fëanor tried to reunite the alliance with the power of his words. But Morgoth, through the spies he planted, learned of the weakness of the alliance, and seized the chance to launch his attack. And so in the 472nd year of the First Age, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, begun. An army of Orcs broke through the Eastern Front, when Fëanor and his generals were away from Himring and on their road west. Orcs and Wargs poured in from the gap, and the green fields of Estolad turned to ash. Fëanor returned at once when he heard the news, retrieving Himlad and some parts of Estolad, but Himring was lost, so was the gap and Thargelion. Using the position of Himring as advantage, Morgoth's legions trapped the army of Fëanor in the south, unable to march north.

At the same time Sauron, receiving his master's orders, unleashed the army of wolves he secretly trained in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, attacked the rear of both Nargothrond and Hithlum. Though Dorthonion was retrieved, the loss in Dagor Bragollach made the Noldor unable to fully guard the highlands, and the forces of the House of Finarfin had been confronting Sauron's since then. When Beren asked for Finrod's aid, he escorted him with his troops, but was obstructed by Sauron and his men, and the two sides engaged in a bloody battle. Nargothrond suffered great losses, until Lúthien arrived and won the battle, driving Sauron and his forces out of the fortress on the island. After her departure, Tol-in-Gaurhoth turned to ruin, so Sauron secretly returned and concealed his presence with his witchcraft, summoning once more the Wargs and Orcs in Dorthonion that were driven by Lúthien, and he trained even more, all for the sake of the ambush in his master's plan.

Finrod and Orodreth guarded Dorthonion with their troops, while Galadriel defended Nargothrond with few forces. Using the secrecy of its location and the rapid river in front of the city gate, Galadriel managed to hold Nargothrond from the attack, but a siege was laid to the city, and Dor-lómin and Mithrim suffered losses from the attack. Finrod and Fingon were forced to dispatch a part of their troops to support their cities, and so the Noldorin forces were divided.

Taking the chance of the Noldor recovering from the ambush, Morgoth ordered his great army to pour forth from Angband. In Hithlum, Gothmog Lord of the Balrogs went against Fingon's forces, and their flames dried the river of Eithel Sirion. The Haladin covered Fingon to retreat to Barad Eithel, and almost all of them fell with their lord Haldir, never to return to the forest of Brethil.

In Dorthonion, the Wargs of Angband pierced into West Beleriand along Sirion, joining with Sauron's wolves and surrounded the troops of the House of Finarfin. Finrod decided instantly to abandon Dorthonion, fighting and retreating, until in Tol-in-Gaurhoth he ordered Orodreth to return to Nargothrond with their soldiers, while he himself led his most loyal followers and charged into the fortress. They battled with the wolves, their weapons shattered beneath fangs and claws, and at last all his friends were killed, and Finrod himself died killing a wolf with his bare hands.

At the Eastern Front, Sauron had negotiated with the spiders of Nan Dungortheb before the battle, and had managed to persuade them to allow Orcs, Wargs and some Balrogs to cross the valley and march towards the east, to trap Fëanor's army from three sides along with the forces in Himring and Thargelion. Fëanor and his men fought with backs to Doriath, and Thingol, out of resentment for Fëanor, banned his people from lending aid. Fëanor gave up on attacking the precipitous Himring, and moved his troops east towards Thargelion; the open fields gave them advantage, along with the help from the dwarves of Belegost from the South-East, they managed to take back Thargelion and drove the Orcs east of Ered Luin. But they lost good men as well, and could only hold a loose and tired line along the northern mountains, while Orcs still poured in from the gap.

Elves and Men suffered defeat after defeat, and hope seemed to be gone. At this moment, Fingolfin dwelt in Vinyamar by the sea on his own, where his son Turgon once lived. Birds and beasts were his company, and every day he sang about the glories of Valinor to the music of his harp. He could see that the northern sky was covered by dark clouds and smoke, but he could not know the situation of the war. One morning, an eagle arrived from the east at Thorondor's command, rested on Fingolfin's shoulder and spoke.

"Noble son of Finwë! Banish the bitterness and stubborness from your heart, for your kin is now in grave danger, and the realms of the Eldar is on the edge of doom. Your departure has left the army of Elves and Men weak, the Dark Enemy seized this chance to annihilate them one by one. Day and night the Lord of Balrogs battered the white walls of Barad Eithel with his flaming axe, while your nephew, the wise Finrod Felagund, has spilled his blood in the dirt of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, and his remaining forces could only retreat to defend their precious Nargothrond. And your brother, the proud Fëanáro, he had volunteered to guard the most dangerous part of the line, and now he faces the greatest threat. He is attacked front and rear, Doriath would not give them aid, and the accursed Ulfang and his son among Men have betrayed him at Morgoth's behest. When he retrieves Himring with his exhausted troops and pushes northward, they will cut off their retreat and leave them to Morgoth's hands. The King of Gondolin held his forces, but even if he plans to go to his brother's aid, Morgoth's attack will be too fast, and the road shall be dangerous as well. He will not make it in time."

Upon hearing it, Fingolfin's heart was filled with rage and remorse. "How foolish and arrogant I am, to ignore Findekáno's advice! If I had refused Fëanáro's challenge as he said, perhaps everything would not come to this end. I accuse Fëanáro for his arrogance and selfishness, yet I failed to see my own! Now the kingdom of my brother and I is falling into pieces, and Morgoth is getting his way. Oh, Fëanáro! I could not truly love you, and I could not truly hate you. I could not forgive you, yet I only wish to curse my own wrongdoings. Let me fight for the last time, with the pride as a king and a child of Ilúvatar! Let my foolish valor bring unity to Elves and Men. May my deed shame you, Fëanáro, and may the endless hatred between us end with my death. May you remember in the rest of your life, that it was Finwë's second son that avenged him til death."

He donned his armor and mounted his horse Rochallor, galloping along the southern foot of Ered Wethrin, crossing the Fen of Serech and made for Angband. Rage and despair filled his heart, and he ignored all other foes, nor did anyone dare to stop him, for Elves and Orcs alike mistook him for the terrible Oromë. His slivery armor gleamed beneath the dark clouds like a star. At last Fingolfin came in front of the gate of Angband, and he blew his horn, called Morgoth a coward, and challenged the fallen Valar to a duel.

Morgoth would not be belittled in front of his underlings, and so his towering dark figure emerged from behind the black gate. His weapon was Grond, a warhammer shaped like a wolf's head, with every strike heavy enough to shake the earth. Agile Fingolfin avoided his attacks, and the sword Ringil left seven wounds on his body. But slowly Fingolfin grew tired; three times he fell and three times he struggled to stand and continued to fight. At last Morgoth's hammer hit him in his chest, and he was stepped beneath the Dark Valar's foot. Before his death, Fingolfin thrusted his sword one last time into Morgoth's heel, leaving the Valar permanently crippled. And so the king of the House of Fingolfin, Finwë's strongest and proudest son, had fallen.

Enraged by his wounds, Morgoth threw Fingolfin's body to the wolves, but Thorondor arrived piercing through the dark clouds, rescued Fingolfin's body and scratched Morgoth's face with sharp claws. The Eagle carried the body south-east towards Fëanor's camp, while the other birds flew to the other realms of the Noldor to announce Fingolfin's death.

Fëanor's army was camped at the foot of Himring, preparing to take back this vital fortress. When Thorondor's wings cast shadows in the camp, Fëanor was polishing the tip of a lance, and only stepped outside the forge when he heard the voices of his soldiers. He took over his brother's body from the Eagle's claws, and knelt down on the stoney slopes of Himring.

"Look upon your brother's face, Spirit of Fire, for that is what he deserves," cried Thorondor. "He challenged the Dark Enemy and wounded him, and now Morgoth's army shall sank into panic and chaos, while Elves and Men will reunite in fury, grief and hope. But beware, son of Finwë! Traitors are among you; Ulfang and his son have traded your information to Morgoth, and plan to cut you off after you march north. Mourn for your brother, but never be idle! For you are now High King of the Noldor, and the burdens are great on a king's shoulders."

"No," said Fëanor. "I see that my death is near."

That night he rid his forces of the traitors, and sent his sons Celegorm and Curufin secretly into Himring. They understood Himring's structure, knew that secret passages were built with the fortress, and the trap that would lead the ones inside the fortress to their doom. They operated the machines in the castle, and the gorgeous Himring collapsed like building blocks, burying all the Orcs and Wargs within. Fëanor had always wanted to retrieve this stronghold, but now his heart was set on breaking through the siege, so he abandoned it without a second thought. His army marched north across the ruins of Himring, and without a leader, the Orcs that poured from the gap were easily slaughtered by the axes of the dwarves, and they joined Fëanor's forces as well.

Elves from across Beleriand reacted to Fingolfin's death. Three days later, Turgon opened the gate of Gondolin at dawn, bringing his best soldiers to war. He aided his brother Fingon in the west, pushing Gothmog's army north. In Nargothrond, Orodreth would not join the battle again, but Gwindor and Galadriel still burned with hatred, longing for vengeance. Gwindor marched north with his troops, while Galadriel rode to Doriath, and delivered a passionate speech in the city of Menegroth.

"Will the proud King Thingol and the Sindar hide in their caves underground when darkness falls? My uncles may have blood on their hands, but you remain content and pleased with your innocence and cowardice. Perhaps you will endure under the protection of your beloved Queen! She loves you so, that even when the smoke of Angband has clouded the sky, she will use her power and make you see false stars, and mistake the poisoned air you breathe to be the sweet summer breeze. My noble kin, isn't Morgoth our mutual enemy? I beg you, and I urge you, let the sinful Noldor see the bows and arrows you're so proud of, and force Morgoth's pawns to flee, as Lúthien and Beren once did!"

The hearts of the people of Menegroth were kindled by her words, even Thingol and Melian were moved. The King of Doriath allowed Mablung and Beleg to go to the Noldor's aid with their archers; they went north to Nan Dungortheb and Dorthonion, hunting down the Wargs and Orcs. Melian rose from her throne and walked to the forest of Neldoreth, and battled against Sauron's witchcraft with powerful songs, forcing Morgoth's lieutenant to retreat northward. The Noldorin army in the northern line was cleared of threats from behind. Galadriel joined Gwindor with the forces of Doriath, and went west to join Fingon and Turgon's great army.

To prevent the Noldor of the west and east from combining, Morgoth sent forth Glaurung, father of dragons, to the field. Fully growned, neither Elves or Men could withstand his flames, nor pierce through his scales. But dwarves had better endurance towards fire, and Fëanor and his forces had sharper weapons. After days of battle and suffering great losses, the dwarven king Azaghâl fell in battle, and Fëanor seized the chance when the dragon lowered his head and pierced his sword into Glaurung's left eye, killing the dragon. Finally, the western and eastern lines of the Noldor were joined, and the forces of Elves and Men were once more united.

Before the last battle, they had a brief moment of rest. Turgon would not allow Fëanor to possess his father's body, and demanded that Fingolfin be buried in Gondolin. Only then did tears fall from Fëanor's eyes, for he knew if he agreed to let Fingolfin go to the hidden city, he shall never see Fingolfin's grave, not to mentioned being buried with him. He strode around Fingolfin's body, like a soldier robbed of armor and weapon, like a lone wolf without his spouse, like a lioness who lost her cub. "Cruel brother of mine!" he wept at Fingolfin's bedside. "Once, after the battle of flames, when you lost your nephews and your human friends, I lend you my shoulders and my arms. Yet when I was in despair, refused by my own creation and doomed to be haunted by my Oath til the end of the world, all you gave me were your scolding, your sword and your shattered bones."

When he wandered the scorched fields of Anfauglith, he lost his conscious due to his wounds and his exhaustion. Fingolfin's ghost came to him then, and spoke to him in his dream.

"Your tears tasted so sweet, my dear brother, though your haggard face pains my heart. Give me to my son, in that way alone shall I cross the world and find my place in the halls of Mandos, and welcome my death written in the Great Music. Give me your hand, I beg you! For this shall be the last time we meet. I will no longer pursue you, and nor should you come looking for me, lest tragedies such as this happen again. Embrace me with your arms one last time, and take it as if I've never existed, as you've always wanted."

Fëanor replied in his grief. "Ñolofinwë, my accursed brother! I shall not obey a single word you said. Soon I will go to the halls of Mandos, and there I shall reunite with you and our father." He reached out with his hand, but Fingolfin was gone, and he startled awake from his dream. That night, Turgon sent Fingolfin's body to be buried in his hidden city; the procession of the glorious Lords of Gondolin marched beneath the stars, until they disappeared in mountains that even the sharp gaze of Fëanor could not pierce.

The next morning, the army of Elves and Men set out once more. Morgoth, in his weak state, brought almost all his forces back to Angband to protect himself, therefore the army met no obstruction when crossing the plain. Morgoth hid his army in the many secret doors of Angband, planning to strike them when they breach the city gate. But Fëanor saw through his scheme, and he didn't put in all the forces at once. Before he put Ulfang and his son to death, he learned from them a secret mountain path that leads into Angband, built by Morgoth for meetings with his spies. Fëanor placed the army far away from Angband, while he himself led his best soldiers and the archers of Doriath (who're good at concealing themselves) into Angband through the path, opened the gate and faked an attack. The troops of the Sons of Fëanor joined as well, and they retreated slowly as they fought, luring Gothmog and his army outside the stronghold. The Lord of Balrogs did not know that Fëanor had joined forces with the army in the west, he thought that only his remaining troops were attacking the city, so he pursued relentlessly, for he held grudge against Fëanor for failing to kill him back in Dagor-nuin-Giliath.

When Fëanor lured them to the open field, Maedhros blew his horn, and the army of Fingon and Turgon joined the fight. Fingon and the Lords of Gondolin managed to fight back the Balrogs, while Húrin and Huor led their men against the waves of Orcs. The fight went on for a day and a night, and at last Fëanor breached the defense and tore down the black gate of Angband, lighting fires everywhere in the maze-like fortress. Morgoth was forced to flee with his wounds still unhealed, and Fëanor pursued on his horse, his outrageous battlecries rising over th roars of the lava. They chased each other around the peaks of Thangorodrim, with Fëanor mounting his brother's Rochallor, as if repeating his valiant act. He wanted to continue his pursuit when Morgoth chose to flee along the frozen shores in the north, but Maedhros stopped him in time.

"Look back, father! Fingon and his guards were surrounded by Balrogs, and are soon to be overrun. I beg you, turn back to his aid, or our kin will be slaughtered."

"Should I give up pursuing my Enemy now?" asked Fëanor. "He is so close, soon I can have him in my grasp! He murdered my father and my brother, and I can see my masterpiece set on his ugly crown, and now I must let him go?"

Yet he returned nonetheless to Fingon's aid. Fingon and his guards were engaged in a fierce battle with Balrogs, and Turgon was held back by too many Orcs to go to his brother. Fëanor saw that the Elven army was growing few, and if the battle continued they might go to their doom. He rescued Fingon, and told him. "Return to your realm, my brother's son! I no longer cared about the belonging of kingship, but I have faith in you and my son. The fire of vengeance still burned in my veins, but my heart cries out for death and reunion. Return to the Noldor's realm with hope, and love your kin and your people, do not commit the same fault as mine. Farewell!"

After he finished, he fought the Balrogs to his death. Fëanor was alone, but he showed no signs of panic and fought bravely, facing Gothmog Lord of Balrogs full of rage in his heart. The Balrog's whip caught his leg, so he sliced off his heel to free himself. At last, Fëanor caught Gothmog's hack with his shield, and seize the chance to thrust his sword into the Balrog's chest, ending his life while he himself received the fatal wound. Morgoth's army collapsed without their leader, but the army of Elves retreated as well, and the battle was finally over.

The Sons of Fëanor carried his heavily wounded body and retreated southward. Fëanor kept cursing Morgoth's name as they went across the scorched plains, but when they arrived in Ered Wethrin, he started to ask repeatedly for the location of Gondolin. No one answered, for no one knew, and Turgon had already returned to his hidden city. At Eithel Sirion, Fëanor sat up for one last time, and cried to the setting sun, "Where is Gondolin?"

Knowing that he would get no answer, Fëanor let out a long sigh, wished his sons happy, and passed away. The fire in his soul burned so hot, that his body turned to ashes after he drew his last breath.


End file.
